


Impact

by squirrellysemantics



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-12
Updated: 2010-10-12
Packaged: 2017-10-12 16:17:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/126747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squirrellysemantics/pseuds/squirrellysemantics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The bleeding effect has side effects that no one really anticipated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Shaun covered his yawn with an awkward stretch. A satisfying little ‘pop’ from his lower back and the world was a little bit tolerable.  Not much though.  Just a little.   The kettle clanged far too loudly for his semi-comatose state as he set it on the crap camp stove that he had pestered Lucy into acquiring for this express purpose.  Not like this ridiculous warehouse they were set up in would have anything like a real stove.

Yes, the world would be a whole hell of a lot more tolerable if he could have some proper tea. No way would he subject himself to the revolting rubbish that the Americans called ‘coffee’.  With the way he was feeling right now he would have murdered them all in their sleep for a nice Irish Breakfast.  A little milk, two sugars and he’d give the Templars Lucy’s head on a platter. 

With a little lacey doily underneath if they added in some nice biscuits.

He could lay full blame on his recently acquired psychopathic tendencies at the feet of one Desmond Miles. 

It had only been the past three days that this whole business started, really.  The sounds that had begun coming from that man’s room at night were simply criminal.  The gasping.  The moaning. Shaun flushed just thinking about it.  For the love of Christ, the bastard must have had the stamina of ten men with the number of hours he’d be at it. No matter how early or late Shaun would try to get to sleep, no matter how many pillows he stuffed around his head-it meant sod all with Mr. Miles: Compulsive Masturbator the next room over. 

Little wonder the silly tosser looked so exhausted. 

His first sip of his weak American brew was still too hot but it made Shaun feel _slightly_ more human. This was more than he could say for a bleary eyed Desmond who was stumbling through the impromptu kitchen like a bull elephant that had just arrived home from a particularly successful bender.  Shaun didn’t bother hiding his smirk as Desmond would open the refrigerator door, close it, and then open it again, searching in vain for the milk the addled man didn’t realize he had already set on the counter.

Serves you right, you git.

Shaun retreated to the relative sanity of his work station.  The others had been absorbed with one of Ezio’s earlier memories the past few days but he paid them little mind.  One of the assassin teams had stumbled on a particularly juicy looking clue and he’d been consumed with trying to analyze it for them.  He took a tentative second sip and deemed it still not quite drinkable.  Killing time, he spun in his chair to watch Desmond crawl feebly into the Animus. 

Pathetic.

The routine wasn’t hard for Rebecca, as she flew through the process of hooking the man up to this and that.   “We’re almost good to go,” she said, fingers flying over her keyboard. “You ready?”

“Yeah.”  Desmond’s response was less than enthusiastic.  Almost weary.

Lucy paused during her final checks at this, her voice couched in concern.  “Are you sure?” 

“I said ‘yes’ didn’t I?” The answer was filled with uncharacteristic bite.

Hmph.

The two women shared a furtive glance. 

Fascinating. 

Shaun’s curiosity had been a bit of a problem for him all his life.  One could say it had been responsible for pretty much every ridiculous bit of nonsense that had ever happened in his life and he saw no reason to keep it in check here.  Something was up, something they hadn’t shared with him. 

He’d be damned if he wouldn’t find out what it was.

He tried to make his stroll over to the Ugly Chair as casual as possible.  Desmond appeared to already be in the thick of things, eyes moving rapidly underneath closed lids.  He felt a bit of a creeper, studying the darker man’s tanned face- something Shaun wouldn’t have had the stones to do if the subject of his attention had been more aware.

There was no two ways about it: Miles looked like utter crap.  Deep, purple bags under his eyes, haphazard shave job leaving plenty of stray stubble along the man’s jaw.   He watched Desmond ‘s leg twitch violently, obviously duplicating something that was happening in the Animus.

“Oh, fantastic,” Shaun said. “Reminds me of my mum’s toy poodle, kicking in his sleep.”   He cooed in a sing song as if to a pet. “It’s just a widdle dream, Dezzie-kins! Who’s a good dog?  Yes you are!”  With a sneer, Shaun gave a patronizing pat to the man’s head.

The length of Desmond’s body stiffened in his chair.  A deep, low moan that Shaun had become intimately familiar with over the past few nights echoed off the room’s high ceilings. 

“Shit!”  Lucy was on her feet in an instant, checking vital sign monitors as fast as she could.

Shaun backpedaled a little, sending a scalding wave of tea over his hand as another familiar moan came from Desmond.  He could see sweat breaking out on the reclining man’s forehead.   Was this what had been going on in the evenings?  Some horror brought on by the bleeding effect letting neither man get any sleep?

Good job, Hastings.   Leave it up to your wholly inadequate sex life to think a man in agony was spending the night wanking furiously. “What’s happening?”

“It’s this most recent memory!”  Lucy said curtly as she punched keys like a madwoman. “Desmond’s been having a hard time getting through it and it’s just been worse and worse every day.”

Due to lack of sleep perhaps. 

Speaking into her headset, Rebecca tried to keep her voice calm. “C’mon Desmond!  You’ve gotta calm down.  I know it’s rough but it’s not real!  It’s just a memory.  Ezio survived it.  You _know_ he did.”

Desmond shook his head unseeing, little abortive gasps like a man drowning.  The monitor claxon was blaring any number of alarms as the man’s heart rate climbed higher and higher.

“Bloody hell!  Just get him out of there!”  Shaun looked between the two women uncomprehendingly as neither of them moved to disconnect the man in the chair.  “What kind of memory _is_ this?” 

Rebecca was determined not to look at him. 

Oh. 

This was not good.

“It’s from a sequence where Ezio was briefly captured by the Templars,” Lucy said without batting an eye.  “They tried to extract information from him before he was rescued by the other Assassins.”

“ _What_?”  His outrage almost made his voice crack. 

“Look!  Abstergo is going to stop at _nothing_ until they have their hands on what they want!”  The blonde at least had the decency to flush guiltily.  “I figured it would be the safest way to train him to resist their torture techniques!”

Blood rushed to his face.  “Yeah, well it won’t help if it fucking _kills_ him, you stupid bint!” 

Whatever words they were about to exchange were cut off by Desmond’s drawn out cry.  His body tensed into a perfect arc in the chair, hovering for a moment before falling back.  He began to thrash, fighting the hold the DNA scanner had on his arm.

“Pull him out!  Now!”  Lucy struggled to extract his arm for him but Desmond was still trapped inside his head and lashed out at her blindly.  She went flying, impact with her desk knocking her out cold.

“You gotta hold him down while I shut down Baby! I don’t wanna find out which one of them breaks first!”  Ah.   Good old Rebecca. 

Shaun hesitated.  As much as he would never admit it out loud even under pain of death, he knew the other man was stronger than him.  Much stronger. 

Desmond bashed his head against the headrest once and again. Echoes of Sixteen.

Get in there, Hastings.  Actually _do_ something besides _watch_ for once.

Not quite sure what else to do, Shaun _sat_ on the raving lunatic, hoping to use his mass to help him at least a little.  “Desmond!  Yoohoo!  Desmond!  I know you’re in there!” He gritted his teeth as he wrestled, trying to pin the other man’s arms to his sides. “Come out, come out wherever you- ugh!“

A very thick skull hit him right above the eyebrow.  Really fucking hard.  Hard enough to make his teeth click. Hard enough to be glad that he hadn’t just bitten off his own tongue.  Stars filled his field of vision.  He felt feet press to his gut and a kick and he was suddenly sprawled on his back across the floor like a particularly bothersome cockroach, glasses long gone.    

The lightshow cleared from his eyes enough to see Desmond perched on the edge of the Animus, a bird of prey preparing to pounce.  “ _Faccia di merda_ ,” the man hissed, white hot with a need for vengeance that could not be contained in the past. 

Oh.

 _Fuck_.

“Desmond!” Rebecca, bless her, scrambled over the table, trying to intervene. “No!”

Time slowed down to a trickle.  Everything seemed so clear now.  Amazing.  Why couldn’t he move? Shaun’s  limbs weren’t listening to him anymore.  Oh, yes.  Perhaps it was because of the sheer terror at the very real possibility of the man hovering over him tearing him limb from limb. Minor detail, that. 

You’d think joining the Assassins would have better prepared him for a proper fight.  But it hadn’t. He couldn’t blame the Assassins, really.  He was a crap fighter, not being born to it like the others.  The Assassins were also not so trusting as to share their skills with one who wasn’t truly one of their own, especially one that abhorred the thought of taking a life.  But he hadn’t actually lied to Desmond when he’d said he’d killed people.  Well, perhaps technically.  Metaphorically speaking was another story.

See, he _had_ killed people.  Indirectly, of course.  He’d guided teams in who had done the actual killing, but it was his brain that found the target, his hand that guided the weapon.  There was blood on his hands just as much as anyone’s.

Things sped up to impossibly fast as Desmond flew through the air, oddly elegant as he landed in a graceful straddle.  Hands flew fast as lightning, heels of the assassin’s palms striking his target in the chest repeatedly. Must think he’s using the hidden blades, Shaun’s brain supplied unhelpfully as the empty handed hits still snapped a rib, making it suddenly impossible to breath.   A sense of self preservation had Shaun gripping the wrist whose fingers moved to thread through his hair, trying to pry it loose as the hand pounded his head against the floor.   As much as he wished he could, he couldn’t avoid the final blow, time standing still again as the hand rushed towards him.  He felt his gorge start to rise at the implication of the incoming palm strike directed straight at his eye.  

The explosion of pain as it hit mercifully dragged him into unconsciousness.

  


 


	2. Impact

There was an odd little jolt as Shaun returned to awareness, like the disorientation that came with a sudden flick of a light switch.  He was fairly confident he was in a bed –his own bed, in fact- and not stretched out on a slab like he had been expecting.   Yes, he was quite elated to discover he was not dead. 

Eyes remained firmly shut, much preferring to assess his relative health, or lack thereof, before making his next move. 

He didn't feel half bad, really. An experimental wiggle of the toes didn't hurt at all.

Well done.

Perhaps Desmond didn't hit him as hard as he had first thought.  Drawing in a deep breath was remarkably pain free.

Fantastic. 

His brain ever-so helpfully replayed the worst of the attack in his mind’s eye. How the hell had he escaped unscathed?  No matter what had happened one thing was for sure. Someone was going to pay for very nearly making him wet himself and they would be very unhappy on the day when he exacted his revenge. 

He wasn’t quite sure who that someone was going to be just yet.

His rational mind knew - _knew_ \- the attack hadn't been the Desmond's fault.  The sleep deprivation on top of whatever horror the Animus decided to visit upon him.  Watching the stupid bastard writhing in agony made sure of that. Logic dictated that the man couldn't be held responsible for lashing out when he was half mad and blinded by pain.

But today, logic apparently decided to fuck with Shaun for a bit of a laugh.

Desmond had been quick to mistake him as the cause of all that suffering.  It disturbed him far more than he would have liked and for reasons Shaun was hard pressed to explain.  

No.  Na. Nyet.  Nope.  Somehow this was all the fault of the arse with boring dress sense.  It had to be. 

And when Shaun figured out exactly how he could lay the blame at the feet of the appropriate recipient, Shaun Hastings was going to open up a can of ‘whoop-ass’ as the Americans were so fond of saying.  Especially since he was feeling no pain after anything Desmond may have done to him. 

He stared at the ceiling as he released a tightly held breath with a puff of relief.  "You're not so tough, Miles."

"Oh, really?" asked the last voice that Shaun expected to hear from somewhere off to his left.  “I’d have to disagree with you there.”

Shaun cursed his luck.   Then the Animus.  And every American anywhere on the planet as well and pretty much his entire life in general up until that point. 

"Hello, Desmond,” he said weakly, not daring to stray from the spot on the ceiling that was suddenly quite fascinating.

“Hello, Shaun.” The Voice was faintly amused, sounding quite close but from his right this time. When had the man moved?  Bloody assassins.  Worse than cats.  “How are you feeling?”

The Englishman took some time to mull over the consequences of ignoring Desmond versus the likelihood of some sort of natural disaster bringing the warehouse down on both their heads within the following ten minutes.  He did his best to keep his shrug casual.  “Not bad.”

“Good.”   

A mouth was on his. 

A person was kissing him. A good kisser.  His mind refused to consider who the good kisser was as he kissed back.  Firm lips tasted like that ridiculous grape mouthwash that Rebecca had forced on them all when it had been her turn to do the shopping.  Shaun’s ears blocked out his sigh of appreciation when this really fucking fantastically good kisser began sucking on his bottom lip.  It wasn’t until his own tongue flashed over the rough texture of scar that he had to finally own up on exactly _who_ was doing the kissing.

He finally glanced down to see precisely the stupid white hooded jumper he did _not_ want to see.

Shaun let his outrage build out of habit.   “Are you out of your tiny little mind?”

The mattress shifted as Desmond seated himself to the prone man’s left.  “Isn’t this what you want?” Wasn’t he just- how the fuck did the man keep changing sides like that? “

No brain power left to think about it, though. “What the holy _hell_ are you on about, you imbecile?” 

“You like me.”

It was not a question. 

“You’re clinically insane.”  Shaun tried to load his usual venom but his jibe came out weak and thin. Something primal in him wanted to run. Run very far away.  

“Really?”  Desmond tugged at the Englishman’s nightshirt and dove in to nibble on an exposed section of collar bone.

There was a shockingly hedonistic moan and Shaun didn’t even want to consider that he might possibly have been the source of it.

The bartender glanced up to share a roguish smile that Shaun wanted to both lick and punch simultaneously. "You are so full of _shit_ , Hastings.”  

“I hate you,” Shaun whispered. He wanted to move- to get away- but his limbs felt like lead.

 He bucked involuntarily as a puff of laughter tickled his belly button. “Treating me like crap is just a pathetic defense mechanism.”  Hands undid more of his shirt and he could not fight it.

“There you were: being kept up _all_ night.” He could feel the words against his skin as teeth scraped the short hairs on his stomach.  “No sleep for _days_ listening to me moan.” 

Shock forced Shaun to look down to see the bartender’s scarred mouth twist into a sneer that seemed both completely _wrong_ for his handsome face yet horribly familiar at the same time.   “You’re a complainer, Hastings.  You _live_ to complain and this time you didn’t say a fucking word.”

"How'd you..." Shaun felt he must have been gaping like a particularly stupid goldfish as color crept up his face.  "I never told…”

The historian’s high pitched “Desmond!” was squeakier than a toy dog that’d been stepped on by a sumo wrestler as a bold hand snaked past Shaun’s waistband. "Gerroff, you bast-ah!"

Said bastard murmured in his ear, voice almost a purr.  "You want this."

If Desmond was expecting to get an answer, he would wind up sorely disappointed as Shaun's ability to speak vanished in a puff of smoke.   Use of his vocal cords were limited to a high whinge as a capable hand stroked him to full hardness quickly, almost painfully so.

It didn’t take much to bring him to the edge.  It felt so bloody _good_.  

When Shaun came, he came with awkward ease, barely long enough to do his fifteen year old self proud.  So long since another hand had touched him even in simple kindness.  That demonic hand continued to wring every last drop from him until….

Shaun snapped awake -for real this time- aftershocks still coursing through him.

At least he hoped he was awake. 

If not, he needed to help his superego string up his id before it crafted another Desmond-centric sex dream.  He couldn’t fathom how much more irreparable harm another one would do to his fragile psyche.

Fuck.

Trying to move was misery. Pure misery. Added to that was the trauma of a drying, sticky mess that had glued his favourite pair of joggers to his thigh.

The sheer extent of his discomfiture proved that he was awake.  That, and he _hurt_ everywhere.

It was far worse than the last beating he'd received- right before he'd found himself consigned to playing nursemaid to a bunch of assassins.  He'd gone out for a pint and finding himself a bit bored had chatted up some blonde at the bar.   She'd wound up being the girlfriend of some overmuscled prat who had been chock full of steroids and the quick rage of a man whose genitalia suffered from feelings of inadequacy.

Needless to say it had not ended well.

His bladder felt filled to bursting.  And his face was absurdly cold.

Well, half his face anyway.  He gingerly felt his way around the hand towel packed with ice that covered his left eye, wincing at even his own light touch. 

Wonderful.

A light snore interrupted his internal grumbling.  The source of the noise was a blur, just beyond the reach of his uncorrected vision.  A blur that looked slightly off without the usual hooded jumper.

The ice pack slipped from his face as Shaun searched for his glasses. Christ, his eye was swollen.  His glasses were waiting for him on the night table.  He was grateful to see at least _they_ had come out of the violence unscathed.  It would have been a challenge to replace if anything happened to them.  Not like he could easily pop round to the optometrist for a new pair. 

Shit.  Even settling them onto the bridge of his nose was painful.  Shaun shot a furtive glance at Desmond, hoping that this one wouldn’t suddenly start stripping or anything else even remotely sexy. 

The bartender was snoring softly from his folding chair, head propped at an uncomfortable looking angle against the wall.  There was a thin line of drool that spilled along the groove of his scar, not quite pooling onto the thin grey t-shirt that stretched across his chest.

Escaping for a hasty shower seemed like a prudent response.  Shaun shifted silently and tried to rise.  A sharp gasp exploded out of him as pain knifed through his chest.  Oh, yes.  The broken rib. 

Desmond came to with a snort, pawing clumsily at the trail of spit with the back of his hand.   “Howzit goin’?” he asked, tongue not yet fully awake. “Didn’t sound like you were sleepin’ too good.”

“Sleep!” His own voice sounded far too high pitched as he forced himself to sit up. “Sleep was lovely, thanks! Simply smashing!”

Brown eyes studied him with suspicion, too sleep-addled still to make sense of Shaun’s obvious rambling.  “You said my name.”

Fuck.  Fucking fuck.  “Haha.  Well.  Yes.  I did have some odd dreams, now that you mention it.”

Shaun studiously ignored the dubious look he got and levered himself to standing. Or at least tried to until a wave of vertigo overwhelmed him. 

The assassin was at his elbow in an instant to support him.  “I _told_ Lucy giving you one of her Xanax was a bad idea.”

Twisting out of the strong grip, Shaun preferred to flop painfully back onto the bed then let the other man get a closer look at the drying stain over his groin. 

Ever persistent, Desmond offered him a hand.

“I need to go urinate, Miles.  Do you plan on joining me?” Shaun said with far too much bitterness.

His anger settled over him like a familiar blanket, coming too easily even if he didn’t believe a word of it.  So much simpler to lash out; create some mental distance between them if he couldn’t make a quick physical escape.  “Perhaps beating me up was all part of your spectacularly complex plan to get your hands on my willy!”  

Desmond rolled his eyes but his hand didn’t waver. “You can barely stand up.  Let me just help you into the bathroom.”

“And molest me whilst I’m in the toilet? No, thanks!”  Fucking hell, it even hurt to be sarcastic. 

He was doomed.

The hand was still there he noticed miserably.  Waiting.

Dragging his duvet over his head like a child, Shaun held very still, too ashamed to move. “Bugger! Off!”

Minutes dragged on until Shaun heard his bedroom door softly open and close.  He waited a little more before extricating himself from his cocoon to find himself alone.  


“Fuck,” he said to no one in particular. 

  
﻿

 


	3. Impact

Shaun slipped his glasses from his nose,   rubbing at one of the few spots on his body that currently wasn’t a painful, throbbing mess.   The harsh light from his computer screen did little to improve the pounding in his skull.  He tried showering but it hadn’t helped.  Hell, he ached down to the roots of his hair, bad enough he hadn’t been able to put in his usual dollop of hair gel.

Under normal circumstances, Shaun would have preferred to spend another day in bed- doped up on some fabulous cocktail from the pharmacy that was Lucy’s medicine cabinet.  What he needed was lots of rest.  That and a handful of Percocet.  But here he was, sorting through data sets in the middle of the night while everyone was tucked safely in their beds.

It was all Miles’s fault.   Or at least the dream-Miles.  There was no way he would let himself fall back asleep if that imaginary incubus was just going to pop round for a quick hand job again.  The flush crawled up his neck just thinking about it.

And oddly enough- checking emails from a bunch of assassins trying to save the world from a cult of megalomaniacs did little to help with insomnia.   

The clue - _his_ clue, the one that _he_ was supposed to be working on before he’d gotten his face mashed in by a demented bartender- had been the focus of much speculation amongst the Order.  A carving in stone of a woman holding a snake looked innocuous enough.  Ancient civilizations were so jam packed with snake loving goddess of this or witch of that you couldn’t swing a dead cat without hitting one, anthropologically speaking. 

That the carving had been taken after a particularly bloody fire fight, pried from the hands of a forcibly deceased Abstergo employee in the Catacombs of Kom el Shoqafa, might have had something to do with why it stood out from the rest.

There had been what looked like text etched on the back, but it was worn down and difficult to decipher.   That was supposed to have been Shaun’s work, but the Order had passed it along to another researcher after he wound up being… incapacitated.   Instead it had gone to that moron in Frankfurt, the one who couldn’t distinguish Aramaic from Arabic and a donkey’s arse.  That cheeky kraut had submitted his final analysis, deliberately cc’ing one pissed off Shaun Hastings. 

He couldn’t _not_ look at the thing.  Fucking grade school level piece of shit, coming to the conclusion that the text was undecipherable and that the carving was a depiction of Amunet.  Or possibly the Minoan snake goddess.  Not particularly helpful, since the snake goddess predated Amunet by about two thousand years.

 Ignorant twat waffle. 

The Assassins had gone ahead and made decisions, completely unaware of how shoddy the conclusions actually were. They were tantalizingly close to the Piece of Eden that was supposed to be in Giza and they opted to concentrate on the final push and deal with the Alexandrian catacombs later. The fight that had earned them the useless carving had cost them enough lives.  If Abstergo had grunts to spare to dig up minor relics over 200 kilometers away then let them have at it. 

It was wrong though, all wrong.  The tingle at the base of his spine told him so, just like it always did when something was left unsolved.

Now if his fucking brain would stop tap dancing against his sinuses he’d be able to figure out what he was missing.

He shifted in his chair for what felt like the millionth time, desperate to find a position that made it a little bit easier to breath with a broken rib rubbing against his lungs.   Bruised body and bruised pride were not a good combination. 

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Shaun tried not to jump, cursing himself for letting Miles sneak up on him.  “None of your goddamned business,” he snapped back, mostly out of habit.

The bastard was wearing that thin grey t-shirt again, the one that was just a little too short to reach the top of his jeans when he moved.

“You should be resting.”  Desmond crossed the room easily; his hips moving in that feline stride he’d acquired from Ezio that made it a requirement that anything with a pulse needed to stare at his ass when given the opportunity.

“Yeah, well thanks for that, mummy,” Shaun snarled, though with a diluted version of his usual venom. “But some of us still have work to do.”

“It can wait.”

“No it bloody well can’t.”  Turning on Desmond, he was taken aback at how sleep deprived the other man looked.  “Something big is about to happen in Egypt and it won’t be what everyone thinks.”

Desmond tilted his head, watching the other man through eyes half ringed with dark circles. “There’s a Piece of Eden in Giza, right?”

“Yeah, but Abstergo’s after something else and the Order wants the Piece so badly they’re ignoring the big picture.”  Shaun swiveled in his chair to stare back at his screen, trying not to show his surge of embarrassment.  The ability to see patterns, connections that others missed, was something his analytical mind had a hard time explaining to others.  “The mission is set to start in less than 12 hours.  No way am I going to change that without any real proof.  I’ve been trying to work it out, but there’s something I can’t remember and I just…” His cheeks puffed out in frustration.  “I just can’t.” 

Good lord.  Did he have to sound _quite_ so pathetic?

When there was no response, he looked over his shoulder.  No Desmond.  Where the fuck had the sneaky git gone off to now?  There was a twinge of something he preferred to ignore. _Hastings, you’re an idiot of the first order._ He returned to his work, trying to lose himself in it like he usually did.

He didn’t realize he had been nodding off until the ‘thump’ of something being set in front of him sent a jolt of adrenaline through him.  A mug of water hot enough to give off wisps of steam sat before him, piss pour excuse for a teabag steeping inside.

The bartender had a mug of his own and the look of disgust he made as he took a sip was priceless.  “How the hell do you drink this stuff?”

“It’s crap but it tastes better than the brew of orangutan’s armpit that Rebecca makes every morning.”

He was surprised to realize he had never heard Desmond laugh before.

“If I ever get the chance, I’ll show you what the good stuff is like,” Shaun said distractedly, watching the tea swirl in his cup.  “Cheers.” He raised his mug in Desmond’s direction and took a swig.   The bartender pursed his lips in amusement and did the same.

Ugh.  Just dreadful. But desperately needed just the same.

A minute, then five stretched out as they sipped in companionable silence until-

“Why do you hate me so much?”’

Normally, people weren’t supposed to inhale their tea but in this case the question resulted in Shaun exploding in a violent fit of coughing.  It fucking hurt to have his cracked rib sliding back and forth, stabbing at his lungs like a knife.

The bartender was hovering over him like a mother hen, instinctually wanting to pound on the coughing man’s back but thankfully refraining from doing so. 

It took a couple of minutes before Shaun could breathe on his own again.  “I don’t _hate_ you,” he finally managed.  He didn’t add that what he hate-hate-HATED was that someone had this magnificent opportunity to walk through history, explore and experience what happened in the past in a way that others could only dream.

His whinging on the topic had come up before but he had stopped just short of explaining how deeply this bothered him. As a child he’d curled up in his bed with a torch long after he was supposed to be asleep just to read every fact, every book he could get his hands on.  Years of schooling, his life spent piecing together the past from partially legible scraps of knowledge.  The Animus should have been an amazing tool for research, not the vehicle for some misbegotten Easter egg hunt.

The fact that his life had devolved into being squirreled away from one hiding spot to the next was merely icing on the cake.  No family. No privacy. No intimacy.  And for what?  He’d been forced to give up everything, just because he had the stones to keep asking questions that others didn’t want answered.

He hated _that_.   And it left him bitter.  Too bitter sometimes.

Shaun carded his fingers through his hair, feeling a little naked without it standing in its usual spikes.  “I can be a bit of a bastard.”

“A bit?” Desmond asked with a snort, his scar getting caught up in his half smile to take the sting out of his teasing.  “Is there anything I can do to help?  I mean, it’s my fault that you’re hurt.  Maybe you’d of had it figured out by now if I hadn’t wound up trying to kill you.”

The tea started to feel cold in his hands. So was that it?  This attentiveness.  This kindness.  All due to guilt because of the attack? 

The disappointment was too strong to ignore this time.

Desmond took the lack of response the wrong way. “C’mon, there’s gotta be something you can trust me to do.  I won’t fuck anything up.  Promise.”

“There is something.”  Anything to keep this arse out from underfoot. 

Setting Desmond up with his spare laptop, Shaun tasked him with sorting through a catalog of hundreds of pictures, tracking each cultural representation of a woman holding a snake and punching it into a historical timeline.  It was boring and brainless. 

He tried to come up with something sarcastic to add about it being perfect for the man but his heart wasn’t in it. 

The sun was almost up and they were still sitting there, Desmond flipping through image after image and Shaun desperately trying to eke something out of the worn script that had gone dismissed in the carving’s original assessment.  Not much luck though.

Even sitting there, the bastard was driving him to distraction.

He was all too aware of Desmond leaning back, too attuned to the angry creak of his chair as the man reached up over his head to stretch.  A small expanse of skin appeared when the edge of thin grey t-shirt rode up the bartender’s torso as he elongated his body to its full length.  It revealed a line of fine hairs that started at the belly button, becoming fuller as it disappeared under his waist band.

“Holy crap!”  A chair crashed forcefully back to earth and Desmond rose from it in disbelief. 

Shaun startled guiltily at this, praying to any god that was merciful that he had not been caught gawking. 

“Athena?  Wasn’t that another name for Minerva?”           

The tingle at the base of his spine had become very insistent.  “One of her names, yes.”

Desmond carried the laptop to the other man’s desk and set it down with a dazzling smile.  “Then check this shit out!”

It was a detail from a painted vase, an amphora that he’d seen a million times.  The Death of Achilles from 540 B.C.  Men with spears waging war with a female figure off to one side that carried a spear of her own.

She was covered in snakes.

The historian didn’t realize he was reading the caption aloud.  “Athena watching over the Trojan War!  You’re brilliant!”  His aches and pains disappeared under his burgeoning excitement.  “Fucking brilliant!”  Shaun grabbed the other man by the shoulders, and gave him a violent shake. “Miles, I could kiss you!”

Desmond leaned in close.  Very close.  “Good.”

“I mean, this is the link we’ve been looking for! I’m sure of it!”  It took a minute for Shaun’s tongue to catch up with his train of thought.  “And… and… what?”

There was a mouth hovering over his.  How _dare_ he?  Shaun refused to stand down.  How dare this arrogant Yank presume that _anyone_ would actually want to kiss his idiotic- oh.  

The kiss was firm and frustratingly chaste. 

Lips that had just short circuited his brain barely touched his as they moved.  “Was that not okay?

“I don’t know,” Shaun murmured, oddly mesmerized by the ridge of scar as he brushed against it. “I need a bigger statistical sampling size to make a valid assessment.”

With that, he caught that full lower lip, teeth clacking together noisily.   Desmond’s delighted little laugh somehow made this kiss even better. 

The bartender’s arms fluttered at his sides, wanting to wrap himself around the other man but not wanting to cause pain.  Big hands finally settled awkwardly on bony English hips and the kiss went on and on until they were both out of breath.

“So how was that?” A rakish smirk took over the whole of Desmond’s face.

"Two data points?"  The idea was simply scandalous. "How can I extrapolate anything with two lousy fucking data points?"

The smirk disappeared.  "Lousy?"

"You can’t prove a hypothesis unless you can duplicate the data. The experiment has to be repeated multiple times!"

“Will you shut the fuck up?"

Shaun sneered as much as his bruised face would allow, feeling better than he had in weeks.  Months, even.  “Make me.”

Desmond smiled and curved his fingers to capture the line of the man’s jaw in his hand.  “With pleasure.”

The slam of cabinet doors in the kitchen made them both jump back.  A wordless Rebecca-sounding grumble echoed over the crash of pots and pans.  Bleary eyed, only her head emerged, barely able to focus on the two men who were trying not to look the least bit suspicious and failing miserably. “You guys are up early.”  She squinted for a moment and shook her head to dismiss whatever thought might have popped into it.  “Coffee?”

The exclamations of “God no!”  and “No thanks!” overlapped each other perfectly.   The two men let loose a shared sigh of relief as the floating head retracted into the kitchen.

  



	4. Impact

“You need some sleep.”

“I know that! Don't you think I know that?” Shaun snapped automatically, instantly regretting his ingrained response even if Desmond didn't look particularly offended.

Pacing was something he usually found helpful but Shaun was at a point where he could barely stand upright. His exhaustion wasn't helped with his entire nervous system pulsing in warning. 

You're missing something Hastings- something important.  It's big and obvious and you're too dim to work it out.

The sparse growth on his neck had been tormenting Shaun mercilessly for the past ten minutes and he resisted the urge to scratch at it. Good lord the itchy phase of going without shaving should have been classified as a method of torture that violated the Geneva conventions.  He'd have himself cleaned up in a heartbeat if he could be sure he was coherent enough to do so without managing to slit his own throat and right now that seemed dicey at best. Never mind the fact that the best beard he could manage looked only slightly better than the arse end of a mutt with a particularly nasty case of fleas. How in the hell Miles had even considered kissing him was beyond him. 

Said kisser was watching him from the couch with a critical eye.  At this point Desmond was just as sleep deprived and even scruffier, though in his case the swarthy shadow only made him look infinitely more edible.

Bastard.

“Look,” the bartender tried again. “We got it now. Abstergo's after Minerva. Isn't that the big clue we've been looking for?”

“Sort of. The Assassins aren't listening to me with just a 'what',” Shaun sighed.  “ We need more. Why is Abstergo looking for traces of Minerva? She was about as clear as mud when speaking directly to her so I'm not sure what they'll expect to find by digging into her past.”  He shook his hands as if it would throw off his fog. “The Templars always have a why. Why? Why? Why? _Why_!?”

That came out far more petulant than anticipated.

'Sounds like someone needs a nap.”

“Fuck off, Miles,” said Shaun, bottom lip jutting out firmly. “I'm not a child.”

“Coulda fooled me.” 

The historian let loose a cry of outrage as he was suddenly swept off his feet and put over Desmond's shoulder like a recalcitrant toddler. Shaun swung a half hearted fist at the perfect ass suddenly in his face. "Let me go this instant, you imbecile!"

"Nope." 

Marching them both down the corridor, Desmond managed to boot open the door to his bedroom with one well placed kick. He easily unloaded his swearing burden onto the bed.  “Sleep now,” came the order. “Think later. Oh wait... Scratch that-”  

There was some fiddling and the echo of a loud 'snick' as the dead bolt on the door slid home, locking them both inside. The smirk that Desmond revealed as he turned was a heart stopper. “How 'bout we fuck-” he began, toeing off his sneakers to saunter back to the bed with no shame whatsoever. “ _Then_ we can do the sleeping and thinking thing.”

Pounced. The Englishman found himself getting pounced.  In a good way.  Oh, dear god in a very good way.

“You know, as far as plans go, that's not half bad,” Shaun murmured as teeth and lips and tongue were at his throat. All those lovely body parts made their way down his neck with callused hands adding to it by tugging at the edges of his shirt.  A shiver went through him from fingers carefully navigating up the side of him that wasn't battered and bruised. "In the past I've had my doubts but right now I'd say I have a new found respect for you and your plan making abilities."

Desmond laughed into the curve of the other man's throat. "You don't ever quit yapping, do you?"

The Englishman let slip a rare smile.  He took a great big breath and let it out slowly, tension beginning to fade away under Desmond's ministrations.  “I've been known... from time to time-”  He faded rapidly, his agitation having been the only thing keeping him together.  Exhaustion swept him away in an overwhelming wave and Shaun had slipped into dreams before the air fully left his lungs.  
\-------------

Slowly coming to awareness, Shaun battled down disappointment when he recognized the familiarity of his own bed.  It was nothing to stab of insecurity at realizing he was alone.

“Jeez, Hastings. You can't even manage to get laid without screwing things up.”

Or not alone. 

He glared at a clean shaven Desmond watching him from the foot of the bed.   No.  Not Desmond. Not really.  “Piss off!”

“Hey, hey, hey!”  The bartender put his hands up in mock defense. “Don't get mad at me!”

Shaun pulled himself up to rest against the head board.  “I can do whatever I want!  You're just my twisted subconscious!”

“True.” Dream-Miles quirked an eyebrow of acknowledgment.  “But doesn't that mean you're only getting mad at yourself?”

“Thanks for the analysis, Doctor Freud,” the Englishman sneered. “If it's all right with you I'd like to get some proper sleep. You know, the restful thing that usually happens at night?”

This unreal Desmond had eyes that were far too bright. “Then why am I here?”

“Getting a little existential are we? Not exactly my cup of tea, but-”

“Knock it off, Hastings!” Desmond was suddenly seated at the edge of the bed, looking deadly serious. “Time's running out for you to stick with your usual bullshit!”

The build up of snide Shaun had been eager to unleash snapped and faded out of existence.  “I know,” he said weakly, slumping in misery.  “That Giza mission is going to be a disaster and it's tied to Minerva somehow. I don't know how or why...” His head thumped against the headboard , trying to beat some sense into it. “What good am I if I don't have any answers?”

In the blink of an eye, Dream-Miles was close enough to slap a condescending hand on the Englishman's shoulder.  “Maybe it's because you're asking the wrong questions.”

Shaun looked up in exasperation.  “For fuck's sake, I'm talking to myself and I still can't manage anything to speak in anything but riddles.  What's the right sort of question then, Mister Smarty Pants?  It's going to be next to impossible to figure out why Abstergo is chasing Minerva.”  The assassin's hand on his shoulder tightened, almost brutally so.  “We don't even know how they found out about Minerva... in... the first... place-”

A faint tingle began building in his arm from that vice-like grip, but Shaun took no notice.  “Bloody hell, how did they find out about Minerva?”

When they'd relayed the video of the memory back to headquarters it had been the first anyone there knew Minerva existed. Other than mythologically, of course.  From Desmond's files, he was the only known descendent who had the memories that were needed.  At least the only one who. hadn't splattered the walls with precious bodily fluids  Abstergo wouldn't have wasted time on Desmond if they had a suitable Subject Eighteen ready and waiting. 

Even Vidic's raid of the warehouse had been odd- Shaun had said so himself.  It had taken the Templars a surprisingly long time to find them and having done it so soon after Lucy uploaded the scenes from the vault was one devil of a coincidence.  Perhaps Abstergo hadn't bothered hunting them since they had been listening in, letting  others do the work for them.  Suddenly Minerva's warning had them crawling out of the woodwork, sent to retrieve Desmond like a forgotten jumper.

Fuck.  It made a sick sort of sense.  How else could the Assassins explain the terrible losses they had taken?

The Templars knew every move the Assassins made as they made them.  Picking off teams one by one until there were almost no assassins left.

Triumph surged through every pore, every fibre of his being and he knew he was right, the way he always knew.  It wasn't much but if the Assassins had any faith in him at all it would have to be enough.

The world tilted sideways and Shaun came 'round-

-with a snap. 

An exceptionally blurry snap. 

The room was dim and unfamiliar without his-  Where the hell were his glasses?  And what- why was his arm on fire?

The answer to at least one of these questions was a snuffling snort almost in his ear. A dark, heavy head was in the process of using his shoulder as a pillow, cutting off all circulation to the offending limb. 

Ignoring the flood of relief at seeing the scruff of beard on Desmond's relaxed face, Shaun tried to gently extricate himself from under the sleeping man but the possessive arm wound around his waist made this exceedingly difficult.

The motion wound up being enough to wake the sleeper. “Hnn, whazzat?” Desmond blearily asked as he forced himself through his confusion.

“Nothing, nothing.” Shaun did his best to sound reassuring, snatching his glasses that had been left for him on the night stand with the hand that had some feeling left in it. “Just need to make a quick call and we'll get back to the fucking part of the plan, all right?.”

Desmond nodded, murmuring something that sounded like approval into the real pillow that wound up under his head before he fell right back to sleep.

“What a ruddy awful assassin you are,” the Englishman whispered almost tenderly.  He took a moment to tug a thin blanket over the sleeping form and was gone.  
______

It had taken over an hour of badgering and pleading and whinging his way up the chain of command to get someone on the more official side of All Things Assassin to take his call.  The layers of bureaucracy were impressive to penetrate because if anyone was a master of making himself a nuisance it was one Shaun Hastings.  Some delicacy was involved because there were too few that knew anything about the centuries old postcard that had been etched into strands of DNA.  "Hello.  Dead now.  Try not to end up same."

He crumpled the precious number scrawled on a bit of scrap in his hand and hit 'enter'.  His computer began routing through a billion secure channels as it reached out to connect with the Egyptian bureau.  He'd added a few layers of encryption of his own.  Let's see Abstergo get through that.

A little flash on his screen and he flinched in horror at his mirrored reflection, web cam capturing just how spectacularly awful he looked as it prepared for the call.  Black eye no longer swollen, just a nauseating shade of green with a sparse hairy layer of not-beard just beginning around the edges.

“Bloody hell,” he murmured. ”No wonder no one believes me.”

"Hastings?” A dark, heavily lined face startled him as it popped up on his screen, looking none too pleased.  “I understand you have information for me." The man's English was tinged with the barest hint of an accent.

"Sir!" Shaun sat a little straighter, the stool he perched on far from comfortable.  The feel of his rumpled shirt riding up to expose his back only added to his nervousness. "There's evidence that your mission may be compromised."  Good God, he would give anything to claw at the skin under his ear right now.

The Egyptian raised a bushy black eyebrow.  “Go on.”

He tried not to falter under the weight of cynicism from the intimidating bureau chief. "I... I believe Abstergo has buh... breached our communication network. The Giza mission is in danger.” 

An unshaven cheek brushed the small of his back, very nearly sending Shaun flying out of his seat.  He tried to swivel wildly but hands dug into his hip, trapping him in place.  A small kiss at the base of his spine had his heart racing.  Either Rebecca forgot to wax her upper lip again and decided to put the moves on him or Desmond had awoken and chosen now as the time to put in an appearance.

The bureau chief scowled darkly. "That's a bold claim."

“I-I know, sir.” Shaun tried to blindly swat at the man behind him but he was batted away. “You're aware of the vault memory?  The one that caused a bit of a stir a few weeks ago?”

The limits of technology made the chief's interest no less palpable.“Yes, I've heard of it.” 

Long licks ran up the section of Shaun's back that was exposed, starting from just above his the edge of his trousers. 

That's it.  Miles was a dead man.  Just get through this call, bend the man over and fuck him until he couldn't walk, then kill him. Kill him dead.

Shaun resolutely ignored the puffs of air cooling the wet lines that had been written across his skin. “I believe Abstergo knows about the memory and have proof they are trying to gather more data.” 

Hands began to boldly caress his thighs. 

So that's how you want to play it?  A quick adjustment of the web cam's angle to make sure that the Egyptian wasn't about to get an eyeful and Shaun pinned one hand against his leg, dragging it to square over his groin.  Without missing a beat, he continued to speak- sounding far more confident than he felt. “The memory had one possible source and the contents are known by a select few yet the Templars are responding in a manner that suggest they know full well what went on.”

The hand Shaun had trapped began to move, tracing the outline of slowly thickening cock through his trousers. 

Wretched, unholy bastard.  Killing's too good for him.

“Is this about the carving found at Kom el Shoqafa?” the Egyptian began scornfully. “Because I read the report and-”

“Yes!” Shaun squeaked as he was given a rough squeeze. He dragged his voice back down from the stratosphere. “That analysis was wrong. The memory and the carving found in Templar possession in Alexandria reference the same... being. Abstergo knows what is in the memory, sir. At this point the only way they would know about the memory at all is if security was compromised.”

The Egyptian exploded in a fit of anger.  “We've been setting up the Giza mission for weeks!  You're not giving me evidence that they know anything of our plans. To pull back now would be a huge setback!”

Hands and mouth vanished and a bedraggled face appeared over Shaun's shoulder, finally making his presence officially known.

“Walking into a trap would also be kind of a setback too, don't ya think?” Desmond offered in support, trying to subtly paw a gob of saliva away from the corner of his mouth.  “How many missions have gone sour in the past couple of months?”

Silence weighed in heavily as its own answer.

“All right.  We'll fall back,” the Egyptian said finally. “I've lost too many good men to take that risk.”  The impassive mask was back in place.  “We'll be in touch.” 

The connection was severed. 

Both men sighed in relief as Shaun meticulously shut his system down.

“Wow.” Desmond shook his head in amazement.  “I never even thought about how Abstergo might have found out about the vault but god damn, you-”

“You utter bastard!”  Shaun was off his feet, tackling Desmond into the couch behind them with no care for any of their preexisting aches and pains. The Englishman was seething in mock fury even as he pressed his hips into a slow grind atop the other man.  “That whole licky-gropey business was uncalled for!”

Desmond laughed, eyes smoldering as he watched Shaun work the zipper of his jeans for him. “Yeah, well, it was more licky-petty when I started.  You were the one who upped the ante to 'grope'.  Besides, you deserved it for fuh-falling ah-asleep on me.”

Shaun savored the little stutter he was awarded when he freed Desmond's cock from its confines. “If I remember correctly, you're the one who did the actual falling asleep on _me_.”

“That was only ah, ah fuck!” A few efficient strokes had the assassin tossing his head. “After you were out like a light. Do you always fall asleep before having sex? Makes a guy feel really wanted, ya know?” 

“You might want to do a better job keeping me awake next time, hmm?” Shaun reprimanded, shoving his own trousers down past his ass. "Pull your own weight for once!"  His long, pale fingers took both of their shafts in hand, the glide of flesh on silken flesh more than enough to get them both  thrusting in counterpoint. "I can't possibly keep doing all the work around here!"

Desmond began to writhe in earnest, keeping his eyes locked on the other man. “Your mouth seems to be doing a whole lot of nothing right now.”

The only sensible answer was for Shaun to take a bite at a nipple through thin cotton,which got a hiss of approval from Desmond.

Quickly, it descended into frantic fumbling, hiked up shirts on both of them to get a little more skin on skin.  Not enough time, not enough privacy and it had been too long since either really felt the touch of another with any sort of amorous intent.

Spitting into his hand Desmond took over, pumping them both in a single fist.  It was a struggle for Shaun to avoid crushing the man who happened to be doing an excellent job stroking his cock, arms trembling under the effort of keeping himself aloft.

Desmond, wonderful fantastic Desmond did the most absolutely brilliant thing iever.  With a curse the assassin was arching up, digging into the couch with his heels-strong enough to lift them both.  His grip was just on the right side of painful and with his free hand palmed the smooth heads of them, adding the fluid that was already leaking from them both to the mix.

For a few seconds it was the only thing in the world- air filled with half groans and soft grunts and that all encompassing sensation of the two of them chambered together in Desmond's hands.

Then Shaun felt a pulse that wasn't his. Another twitch and it was suddenly wet and warm and Desmond was bucking like a wild thing as he came.

So good.

Shaun was there with him, shooting across the other man's fingers with a strangled shout that made it half way out before he was even aware he was doing it.  His arms gave one final shake and gave way, Desmond doing his best to free up his hands. 

They lay there; a tangled, sticky mess with Shaun's bared ass getting the first bit of sunlight it had seen in quite some time.

"So," Desmond started, still breathless. "That work for you?"

It took a moment for Shaun to put back the parts of his brain that had imploded.  "That was... satisfactory," he panted.  He tried to sit up but it seemed that some git had glued them together.  "See that you do better next time."

“You. Are. Such. A. Jackass.”  Desmond tried to look stern but failed miserably.

Their soft laughter mingled in the air.

 _  
**(fic) Impact pt 4 AC2 Shaun/Desmond**   
_


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